TRUTHS & TORNADO TOUCHDOWNS: SURVIVING A F2 TORNADO OUT IN THE WOODS

CYCLIST: Wow. Today is your lucky day.

ME: No, no—my life was just spared. That had to be God. I was riding my old-school Raleigh bike when a F2 tornado rode through town. Most summer days, I’m out on the bike trail that cuts through my hometown—and today was no exception. Although the large trees lining the path make this the perfect spot for shaded summer exercise, it’s about the worst place to be with 100 mph winds.

It was a hot summer day in Cincinnati. I checked the temperature about 2 miles into my trek: 92, feels like 107 degrees. I texted my mom: I would say 107 feels accurate. I gave her my location and direction headed, always a good idea when traveling solo. I kept moving forward but the conversation within my mind could not land on why pedaling today felt difficult. It had to that humidity, right? Eight miles in, my gaze started to venture to the sky. Finally a break in the tree cover, I could tell a storm was moving in. Really? It was perfectly sunny a second ago. I convinced myself to just go 2 more miles and then turn around. I could settle on a 20 mile workout with this heat, knowing most days I would have pushed myself further. You could turn around right now.

Looking back, that was the nudge I ignored. Just 2 miles—that’s like 8 more minutes. It will be fast. I took a beat to notice that pressing feeling but pushed it aside long enough to challenge myself to the turnaround mark. I glanced at those clouds again. At this point, I had turned around and had about 8 miles left back to my car. I had just left the small town of Milford and could tell that storm was going to roll in quickly. I got to get out of here. My gut feeling was right—that exact spot would end up being only a few moments from where our tornado touched down. Okay, here’s a fun game: pedal as fast as you can to get back to safety. That nudge was back—this time appealing to my competitive nature. I checked the weather quickly on my phone. The radar showed 18 minutes until rain. I could do this. Maybe not in 18 minutes—but I might out-bike the heat of this storm. Rain I could do; it was the unsettling sense of those odd looking clouds that made this ‘go as fast as you can’ race truly appealing. I booked it. I pedaled as fast as I could. 5 miles left.

No rain. No thunder. Nothing. I quickly passed a trailside restaurant where people were still eating their lunch like normal.

I’m going to make it. I passed an older gentleman also riding his bike headed back my direction. He yelled out to get my attention: how far did you go? I answered him—telling him that I’m trying to get back before that storm hits. He agreed; I kept pedaling. Less than two miles to my car, the wind started blowing uncontrollably—so much so that I struggled seeing. The rain didn’t dribble or even give out a warning that it was beginning—it went straight to pouring down buckets. Everything changed instantly. My mindset was still focused on getting to my car: the only shelter I could foresee. One mile left. I was so close. Watch out for falling branches.

That voice was back. Watch out for falling branches!!

Okay, got it. It wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop replaying that thought, that message. I took mental note: it must be important. At this point, I’m pedaling at least 18 miles per hour, pretty fast considering the conditions. I hear the crack of a branch about 50 feet up, just above me. Watch out for falling branches. What happens next is in slow motion, but looking back it was a fraction of a second. A huge chunk of a tree splits off and begins to plummet to the ground. In that moment, I can’t decide to hit the brakes or try to speed underneath it. All I can do is know that this branch is coming, and it’s coming fast—directly towards me. This is it. This is how it ends. It's crazy how your mind can replay moments of your life in mere seconds.

S-L-A-M. The branch hits the ground much quicker than I expected, and I ram into it. Dead stopped. I fall over my handlebars into the much softer side of the branch that has now spanned the entire length of the bike path. Crazy enough, the leaves broke my fall, and my leg broke something: my fall, the branch, itself? I don't have time to figure that out. I’m alive? I’m alive. For a split second I have this victorious thought of wow, I can’t believe I’m okay coupled with: I have no idea how I am not crushed under that tree. My adrenaline is racing. I pick up my bike and realize that where I am standing is now a ticking time bomb. I (somehow) dodged one out of the hundreds of trees lining the path, and this storm is only beginning. I am not out of the woods yet: I have to get out of here. I push my bike across the road and find a gazebo with another cyclist taking cover inside. I faintly remember the older gentleman minutes behind me and wonder if he found shelter. The thunder and lightning continue to strike and rattle at the exact same time for some length of time. I hear the sirens going off at the park and don’t have the wherewithal to run away from this wooden structure. Anything has got to be better than what I just faced. Before I can even start counting my blessings or make sense of the miracle I just witnessed, the storm ends as quickly as it began. I look to see the older gentlemen pedaling his bike away from the path: he somehow made it too. A calm before the storm.

The storm.

A calm after the storm.

THE TRUTH: Isn’t that how it works? Often we recognize moments leading up to a storm in our lives. Maybe it’s because we’re traveling through a valley and the conditions just seem oh, so right. Or maybe even if you’re prepped and aware, the storm rolls in like a lion, pressing in on you from all directions whether you’re ready or not. But it’s that peace after the storm that’s my favorite—that moment that you know you made it out on the other side. You might have went through what seems like a tornado, but you are okay. That storm could have taken you down—but even with the bumps and bruises, you are somewhat better because of what you just experienced.

YOU ARE STRONGER NOW.

You are stronger because of what you just faced. You walked away with hands-down proof: you now know more truth than what you knew minutes before - days before, months before. You are not who you used to be, for through whatever storm you just army-crawled through, you realize you did not walk through it alone.

THOSE NUDGES: Looking back, I’m trying to pay attention to those nudges—that still, small voice that is trying to guide me. I’m aiming to slow down enough to be aware and respond. I’m also realizing that I don’t have to navigate daily life by myself. I have a Father who truly cares about me -- that thought leaves me in complete awe. Guess what? He cares about you too. I'm choosing to remember that whether I am in a storm or in the calm, I am not alone.

God is with me.

NEXT STEPS: I had a friend who placed a sticky note on his fridge that read: I am not alone. God is with me. At the time, my young brain did not understand why that was a concept that needed to be constantly seen and re-read. Of course, God was with you, I thought. It was something I was taught from such a young age. I never questioned this promise -- that is, until life hit. You know, those moments in the dark, storm of life -- those moments that you can't remember who you are or what you stand for. It's in those moments that I have to tell myself that I am choosing to rest my foundation on Someone who cannot change -- that Someone who is the same yesterday, tomorrow and forever. I choose to stand on His promises because I certainly cannot trust myself to conquer it alone. So, yes friends -- this is a promise worth saving and remembering. Write it upon your forehead, jot it upon your doorframe -- place the sticky note on your fridge. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. GOD IS WITH YOU.

UPDATES:

I have seen our community rally together to help one another come back stronger after this storm. It’s so neat to see strangers helping strangers.

Here are a few images from the damages of the F2 tornado that flew from town. Thanks to our community for sharing these pictures. It makes me truly count my blessings!